


Relaxation

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Mpreg, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Conventional wisdom says witchers can't conceive. After a rather ill-judged night of passion, nature proves conventional wisdom wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 377
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	Relaxation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaineyDay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaineyDay/gifts).



There's no better way to relax at the end of a long day, Jaskier thinks, than bending down over the nearest available flat surface and being had from behind. It always does the trick, he thinks. It always hits the spot. Of course, doing the trick and hitting the spot are precisely the kind of things that led him here. 

_Here_ is, however, more of a situation than a place. _Here_ is a certain unlikely set of circumstances that sound like something straight out of a fairytale, at the last the saucy ones he likes to sing about sometimes. They're always crowd-pleasers, the saucy ones; a night or two of those and he'll have jingle enough to his purse that he can live like a lord for a week or a peasant for a month and frankly, he's always chosen the former over the latter. They say you can't take it with you and it's just as well, really - most of the time all he's got to take with him from one town to the next is his lute and the smile on his face. He supposes he really ought to be more careful now. 

After all, Renfri might have his eyes but he doesn't want that to be the only thing she gets from him. That would just be such a terrible waste. 

\---

The night he found out was quite a lot like every other night, when it came down to it: he'd been singing in a rather rowdy tavern on the way to who knew where, a wink here, a nod there, making just enough coin to cover his tab, and he took a turn by the bar to enquire about taking a room for the night. 

"Gentleman in the corner took the last not half an hour ago," the rather hirsute barman told him. His rusty grey beard was so long he wore the end tucked into his belt, which rather restricted his movement when he tried to just his chin in the direction of said gentleman. Jaskier got the general idea, though, and doffed an imaginary cap as he turned to take a look. 

Sometimes, he could persuade one of a tavern's paying guests to share their bed, when there wasn't another to be had or he found himself short of funds for the night. Sometimes, he tried his luck with the staff instead, but he didn't fancy his chances with the barkeep, or have a particular desire to find out if his rather lengthy whiskers had a bedroom-specific usage that made them worth the nuisance. But when he narrowed his eyes and peered across the room, a great big grin spread across his face. It was going to be easier than he'd dared to hope. 

"So, what brings a dashing fellow like yourself to a dingy place like this?" he asked. He took a seat at the table and slapped both hands down on the faintly disgusting top. "Please don't tell me it's the stew."

"It's not the stew," Geralt said, then he put his spoon down in the half-eaten bowl of tavern stew to which Jaskier was referring. He did it abruptly, and it splashed onto the table, and it splashed onto Jaskier's hand; Jaskier frowned at it, then at Geralt, then licked it off with a flourish. 

"It's not that bad, actually," Jaskier replied. "I've definitely had better, though. There was this woman in..."

Geralt sighed. He pushed his chair back from the table and he stood, pulling his cloak around him. Jaskier frowned again. 

"Geralt, have you put on weight?" he asked. "I mean, just a bit. A tad. A smidge. And it looks good. It looks really good. You're always such a fine figure of a man. But I..." He paused. His frown deepened. "You know, if I didn't know better..." He narrowed his eyes. "Geralt, are you pregnant?"

Geralt didn't say yes. He stalked away from the table, but that also meant he didn't say no. And Jaskier couldn't help but think there might just be a song in that if he could just wheedle out the story from his rather taciturn friend, so he pulled himself up and he grabbed his bag and he grabbed his lute and he scampered up the tavern stairs after him. 

Even looking a little heftier than normal, Geralt was faster than he was. That didn't, however, mean he managed to slam the door behind him before Jaskier got to it. He slammed it on Jasker's shoulder but all he could think to say about that was, "Geralt! That could've been my lute!" Geralt gave him a look over his shoulder that said he might have preferred that, all things considered. He really has no appreciation for the finer things in life and Jaskier was just about to launch into a lecture on the absolutely essential place of music in contemporary society when Geralt took off his cloak and completely shut him up. 

Geralt took his cloak off and threw it over the back of a nearby chair. Then he took his shirt off and sent it after the cloak. He'd seen Geralt's bare back before, of course, with all its scars of various widths and lengths and shapes and sizes, he'd seen all their various colours and shades from the angry almost-red of new ones that looked like they might bleed it you gave them the wrong kind of sideways glance, to the ones that had been there so long they'd faded almost white. Some of them were probably older than he was, he thought, and he bet they had some absolutely cracking stories. But then Geralt turned to him, shirtless, and really only one story mattered. 

"I thought witchers weren't supposed to be able to...you know," Jaskier said, and he flapped one hand vaguely in Geralt's general direction. His usually jealousy-inspiringly flat stomach was round like a ball in a completely undeniable manner, with his trousers slung precariously low down underneath. He set his hands on his hips. 

"We're not," Geralt replied. 

"But you are."

Geralt didn't reply, but Jaskier knew the question didn't really need an answer given how obvious his situation was. It wasn't even like Jaskier hadn't met other pregnant men on his travels, he supposed; it was fairly common knowledge that only one man in every few hundred or so even had the right equipment, and most preferred to go see a mage rather than carry the child to term, but...

"So, how far along are you?" Jaskier asked, pleasantly. Geralt just pressed his lips into a flat and rather unimpressed line in lieu of a response. "Looks about...six months?" He took a couple of steps closer and narrowed his eyes to peer. "Seven?" Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. "So, who's the lucky man?" Geralt raised his brows; Jaskier's chest went tight. 

"Geralt..." he said. Geralt tilted his head. 

Seven months. _Seven months_. He knew exactly what that meant, because he remembered exactly what had happened. He just had to admit he wasn't completely prepared for it. 

He remembered he'd been singing in a tavern that night when Geralt had walked in. He remembered Geralt ignoring him exactly like he did sometimes, then sitting down to eat while Jaskier continued flirting. He remembered Geralt disappearing up the stairs and things had been going relatively well so he really hadn't been in a rush to follow. Except it had turned out that the very charming lady in whose direction he'd been aiming his attentions had a rather surly fiancé and so, in the end, he'd beaten a slightly hasty retreat. Safety in numbers had seemed to make sense and so he'd invited himself into Geralt's room. And it must have been a fancier place than he'd first thought because Geralt was lounging in a big copper tub filled with steaming water when he let himself inside. 

"So, what's a witcher like you doing in a place like this?" he asked, as he put his lute and his knapsack down by the door. 

Geralt took a deep breath and huffed it out frustratedly. "Trying to relax," he replied. 

He didn't look particularly relaxed. He looked tense and scowly and like he'd gone five rounds with a mountain lion, even sprawled in the tub like he was. Of course, the tub wasn't quite big enough for him to stretch out in, which meant his knees were sticking up out of the water; they were spread wide, one resting against each copper side, and the water was almost still enough for Jaskier to see right down into it. Predictably, his own interest in the situation stirred somewhat. After all, he'd just put all of the evening's eggs into what had turned out to be another man's basket, so he was currently more than a little empty handed. 

"You know what I find works really well for relaxation?" he asked.

Geralt rubbed his eyes with one wet hand. "I swear, if you say _music_ , you'll never sing again."

"Well, I wasn't going to but that wasn't very nice," Jaskier said. "I'll have you know a lot of people out there are extremely fond of my voice." Geralt raised his eyebrows at him rather pointedly. Jaskier gave a theatrical shrug. "I was going to say _sex_. It works every time. You just lean down over the nearest flat surface and get someone to give you a good go from behind and there you go, instant relaxation." 

Geralt did not look convinced. He looked about as far from convinced as it was possible for one man to be, in fact, witcher or not. So Jaskier started to wag a finger at him and he was right in the middle of trying to say something like, _You look skeptical but don't know it till you've tried it!_ when Geralt suddenly stood up. Some of the slightly perfumed-smelling water sloshed out of the tub onto the floorboards and Jaskier was right on the verge of telling him to watch what he was doing because he didn't particularly want his nice new boots to smell like rose oil for the next three thousand years, but then he realised: a) actually, smelling like rose oil wasn't such a bad thing, and b) Geralt of Rivia was standing stark naked in front of him. 

He'd never seen Geralt naked before. Not like that, at least, because he supposed at the very least there'd been another tub and that time with Yennefer. But Geralt was standing there calf-deep in a shiny copper bathtub, his hair soaked through and slicked back behind his shoulders, dripping. He was standing there all tall and broad and muscular, with the lamplight making his wet skin glisten. His cock was long and thick and probably bigger than Jaskier's ever was, even soft like that, if he felt much like admitting it. And sure, so it wasn't the first time he'd noticed that Geralt was an attractive man, but it was the first time he'd found himself speechless because of it. He had to admit he couldn't actually recall the last time that had happened. 

So, he stared. Geralt dripped into the tub from his hair and his chin and his fingers, and from the tip of his cock. Drip, drip, drip. Jaskier could almost feel it at the tip of his own cock, which seemed dreadfully unfair given how not ten minutes earlier he'd still been looking forward to getting his end away and now all he had to look forward to was probably an awkward wank thinking about his prickly silver-haired friend. Prickly possibly physically speaking as well as metaphorically, given how singed his chest hair looked. If nothing else, Jaskier supposed he might get a story out of that. 

Then Geralt moved. He stepped out of the tub and onto the rug next to it, and Jaskier picked up a cloth and threw it to him to dry himself; Geralt caught it, but he frowned at him then at the cloth and threw it onto the dresser. Then he followed it, striding wetly across the room, leaving footprints on the floorboards, and he bent down over the dresser top. Jaskier's eyes went so wide he was almost surprised they didn't just pop out. He had a song about that, not that it had ever really happened. Not to his knowledge, at least, because he really did feel close.

"Erm, Geralt..." he said. "What are you doing?"

"Bending over the nearest flat surface," Geralt replied. He settled down lower, leaning on his forearms. Then he turned his head and looked back at Jaskier over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you were hinting at?"

"Actually, I..." Geralt's eyebrows rose in an expression of _think carefully about what you say next; do you think I'll offer this again?_ and Jaskier snapped his mouth shut smartly. "Yes," he said, attempting to feign sincerity and missing the mark like strumming the wrong string. "Yes, that's exactly what I was hinting at." Which he was absolutely positive they both knew was a bald-faced lie because he'd definitely been thinking about Geralt fucking him and not the other way around and he'd been very sketchy on the likelihood of even that much happening. But that wasn't to say he wasn't interested. He was _very_ interested. He was very, _very_ interested. Especially when Geralt leaned down against one shoulder and slipped his hands back to his unsurprisingly perky arse. _Especially_ when Geralt used both hands to part his cheeks and expose himself completely. 

"You know, this might be the sexiest thing I've ever seen," Jaskier said. "That or the strangest. Possibly both." And Geralt glanced back again; he didn't need to say a word because the look on his face was pure _don't make me regret this_. He very much did not want Geralt to regret it, so he mimed locking his admittedly big mouth shut - however long he might have thought that might last, Geralt's guess would probably be both briefer and more accurate - and then he finally went closer. 

He knew what to do, of course. It had been a very long time since he'd been a blushing virgin and frankly he hadn't done much blushing even then, but he could feel his cheeks starting to warm. The oil Geralt had in the bath was sitting on the dresser and when Jaskier reached for it he sent the little stoppered bottle rolling with the smooth-hard sound of glass on wood; one of Geralt's hands whipped round and caught it as it dropped from the edge. He held it up. When Jaskier took it from him, their fingers brushed and he nearly dropped it again, ridiculous though he knew that was. 

His hands weren't shaking, nothing so melodramatic, but he could feel his cock starting to stiffen up uncomfortably inside his already quite tight breeches and somehow he'd taken a turn for the nervous. So, he did exactly what he always did when nerves reared their ugly head: he got the fuck on with it. 

Geralt was still holding his cheeks apart and for a second Jaskier thought about licking him there, just teasing him a bit with the tip of his tongue to see what his reaction would be, but he quickly thought better of it, given he didn't particularly want Geralt to have a sudden change of heart. So he ran his fingertips between his cheeks instead, rubbed his hole with the pad of one thumb, and watched him shift a little. Geralt's fingers curled and he spread himself wider, opening his hole a fraction, and honestly all Jaskier wanted to do was slick himself and shove it in right then and there. 

He'd had people offer themselves to him before, men and women, all kinds of looks and ages, classes, shapes and sizes, and his oversexed libido didn't discriminate too much, but...it was Geralt. Geralt who, before that moment, he'd have said would've needed some fairly heavy-duty aphrodisiacs to even think about fucking him, never mind bending over and offering himself like that. Except he supposed Geralt had lived about four times as long as he had by that point and had probably fucked his way across the continent twenty times over, so in a way it probably made sense. 

"I don't have all night," Geralt, said, and the fact he'd spoken made Jaskier jump. So much for getting on with it, he thought, but then at least he finally did. 

"I don't know, Geralt," he said, as he unstoppered the bottle. "It seems to me like you definitely have all night. And possibly all day tomorrow if you felt like it, too. Or is another dashing lutist going to burst through the door in the next thirty minutes? Do you have a tight schedule?"

Geralt made a low grumbling sound that may or may not have been considered swearing in most polite society. Jaskier took that as a no and proceeded to mostly cover the bottle's mouth with one thumb then drizzle oil down the crack of Geralt's arse. He watched a few drops pool at Geralt's hole and a few drops run down lower; he ran the tips of two fingers over Geralt's balls to catch the spill before it could hit the floorboards then moved them up, following the line of oil as his heart beat far too quickly. He spread it over Geralt's hole. He rubbed with the pad of one thumb then drizzled on a little more till it was good and shiny in the lamplight. Then he pressed with the tip of one forefinger until Geralt told him, "Stop."

He stopped. "Did you change your mind?" he asked. "Because honestly, Geralt, I'd be more than happy to take your place if you--"

"No." 

Jaskier frowned. Geralt gave him a testy look over his shoulder. 

"Then what?"

"I assume you've done this before."

"You assume correctly."

Geralt turned away again. "Then for fuck's sake, get on with it," he said. 

Jaskier shrugged. "If you insist," he said, then he put down the oil and he unlaced his breeches and wow, just easing his aching cock out of them felt entirely wonderful. "Your wish is my command," he said, all unfortunately connotations intended, and he used the oil to slick himself till he was almost dripping with it. It probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had, considering there was no way it would come out of his clothes, but he wasn't sure any of this was his best idea. Except then he ran the underside of the tip of his slick cock against the crack of Geralt's arse, over his hole that he was sure he felt twitch against him, down to nudge behind his balls. He could see Geralt take a hard, deep breath and huff it out, his ribcage shifting, and then Jaskier slipped his cockhead to Geralt's hole. He pressed against it. He slapped Geralt's hands away and he held him open himself and he pushed against him, keeping himself in place with the judicious application of one oily thumb. He pressed harder. He felt his pulse beat wildly. He felt Geralt's hole begin to give. Then Geralt relaxed, as if by some great force of witcher will, and that was it: Jaskier found himself in him, suddenly, an inch and a half deep. 

He pushed the rest in slowly, watching as he did it. He watched his own admittedly not unimpressive member open Geralt up, inch by inch, like something from a sex-filled fever dream. Geralt hand his forehead pressed to one forearm and Jaskier could see the fingers of his other hand tucked down behind the dresser, between the wood and the wall, which seemed like a terrible idea but he really didn't think Geralt would be particularly amenable to his advice at that juncture. He just watched him gripping there, white-knuckled, so hard Jaskier wouldn't have been shocked if a chunk of it had broken off in his hand. As he stood there behind him, balls-deep inside him, one thumb rubbing the rim of his hole that was stretched tight around him, apparently Geralt's ill-judged hand position vis-à-vis the dresser and the wall was absurdly fucking fascinating. 

He made himself look away. Then he made himself move, not that it really took much making. It made him groan when he did it, though, and not exactly quietly, but Geralt didn't grumble at him to shut his mouth so he absolutely didn't. Over the years, he'd found he was really only quiet when he had to be, like if discovery was likely to lead to fleeing naked from an upstairs window and trying desperately not to fall off a rickety trellis into a nettle patch. He'd done that one and spent several days dabbing odd-smelling lotion on his unmentionable as a result, so he really wasn't after a repeat performance. And anyway, he groaned out loud as he shifted his hips and moved inside him and actually, Geralt hissed in a breath in response. Geralt pushed back against him, taking him basically as deep as he could possibly go, and Jaskier had to grip Geralt's hips to keep from stumbling back. Of course, Geralt seemed to like that. But that was fine, he thought: no more Mr. Nice Bard. 

He started fucking him in earnest. He'd acquired a frequently surprising reserve of sexual stamina on his travels, he thought, and he got into it with gusto; he leaned against the dresser's front edge for leverage, planted his still booted feet firm against the floorboards and rocked his hips nice and hard. He set a fast pace, beating time in his head like he played a bloody tambourine and not a lute. He pushed in deep with every thrust, making the floorboards creak, and Geralt's arse was so tight around him that all he could do was swear under his breath, then not so much under his breath, as he fucked him even harder. Geralt started pushing back to meet him and it made the dresser rock and he yanked his hand back out from down the back - Jaskier said a quick _I told you so_ inside his head but then Geralt used that hand to brace himself against the wall and fuck, fuck, there was no give at all the next time Jaskier pushed forward and he thrust so deep inside him that he almost came. 

Actually, after that, it didn't take too long until he did come. He really did usually have a great deal of stamina but there was something about the heat of Geralt's skin and the way his damp hair clung to his shoulders and the way the ridiculous muscles shifted in his arms and back. There was something about his scars, and how Jaskier's blunt nails caught on them here and there as he raked his fingers down his back. Geralt swore and pressed his forehead down against the dresser and took a handful of his own long hair, really tight, so tight it almost looked like he was going to rip it out. And wow, he was tense. Jaskier could see that. He could see the way all his muscles were pulled taut and when he tilted his head he could see Geralt's jaw was clenched and when he slipped one hand forward, down, over Geralt's hip and between his legs, he found his cock was hard. 

Logically speaking, he knew that made sense. Sexually speaking, however, it hit him rather like falling off a galloping horse. He'd done that to him, he thought. It wasn't just some strange one-sided thing, as if it ever had been. He'd made Geralt hard. He'd turned him on, lit his lamp, floated his boat, however you wanted to put it and he knew a few more euphemisms. And apparently that was what it took: Jaskier's hips gave a spasmodic jerk and his hands went tight and his breath hitched almost like a hiccup and he came, just like that, still pushed up deep inside him. 

After that, he went mostly still and made a rather vain attempt to catch his breath. A few moments later, he slowly pulled out. He usually exerted quite a lot of effort trying to make sure he pulled out _before_ he came, but he supposed it didn't really matter where Geralt was concerned - you never knew who might or might not have the right parts to make it riskier, except if you were screwing a mage or a witcher, or so conventional wisdom said. But he pulled out and he thumbed Geralt's hold and he saw his own stuff welling up, and if he hadn't just exhausted that particular reserve, his slowly softening cock might have had a bit more to give at the sight of that than a slightly feeble twitch. As it was, he pressed two fingers knuckle-deep inside him, then slowly pulled them out. As it was, he pushed his still half-hard cock back into him and felt Geralt's arse pull tight. 

He half expected Geralt to push him away, but he didn't. Geralt let him stay there just like that for the next few minutes, until he'd gone so soft inside him that he basically just slipped back out again when he finally moved. It helped, Jaskier thought, because when he stepped away he wasn't unsteady on his feet like he might have been, and grabbing Geralt's wash cloth from where it was draped over the edge of the tub didn't result in slipping, falling, or soaking himself in lukewarm bathwater. He cleaned himself off and tucked himself back in then ran the cloth between Geralt's cheeks. Geralt grumbled underneath his breath, though he didn't try to stop him, then he turned. 

He remembered Geralt had still been hard at that point. Standing there in front of him in a room not unlike the last one, seven months after the fact, he remembered going down on his knees on the floor. He remembered how he'd wrapped one hand around Geralt's cock and glanced up at him, not exactly demurely, before he'd sucked the tip into his mouth. He remembered exactly how little time it had taken to get Geralt off like that, sucking him and stroking him, with his free hand gripping one still-damp calf, and how Geralt's fingers had been in his hair, messing up the perfect style. 

He remembered Geralt trying to keep still and how he'd groaned out loud when he came, higher than his voice usually sounded, all turned on and strained. And he would have usually found somewhere to spit it out but he hadn't really wanted to move so fuck it, he'd thought, and just swallowed it down. He remembered the way Geralt looked at him after, all flushed with his pupils wide as he made a vague attempt at patting Jaskier's messy hair back into place, but he failed miserably and gave up with a scowl. Then he'd put some clothes on, just trousers and a shirt, and they'd sat there at the table under the window with the curtain that wouldn't quite close all the way and an hour later, when he'd managed to get so drunk he could barely stand, Jaskier had pulled it down trying to make it work properly. Maybe Geralt hadn't laughed - Jaskier did enough laughing for the both of them - but he remembered how amused he'd looked. Maybe Geralt had never been the easiest read, but he knew him well enough, he thought.

And in the morning, after he'd fallen over taking off his boots and Geralt had refused to help him get back up, after they'd slept in the same bed because honestly it could've slept a couple more in addition to the two of them, they'd woken up in the morning sunlight streaming in from where the curtain had once been. After Gerald had pinned it back in place with two big knives that he jabbed into the wall, they'd slept another hour. Then they'd gone on like nothing had happened the night before at all. But it had. Obviously it had. _Obviously_ it had. The pretended, at least until it had been time for them to go their separate ways and then like some romantic fool from the songs he sang, Jaskier had pushed him up against his saddlebag and kissed him on the mouth.

"It's mine," he blurted, and when all Geralt did was wince a bit, he knew he was right. 

Now, it wasn't the first time he'd been told he was about to be a father. It wasn't even the first time he'd believed it, though it had turned out to be wishful thinking on the lady's part and her firstborn was actually her much less charming ex's - he'd been a sculptor and that was when Jaskier had realised art was all well and good but apparently what most women wanted was a cheeky wink and a pretty song, not a statue nine feet tall of them in the buff. It was, however, the first time the whole rest of his life had started to flash before his eyes and then frozen at the childbirth because he had no clue what came next. 

"Were you going to tell me?" he asked. 

"Maybe," Geralt replied. Jaskier put his hands on his hips. Geralt sighed then said, "Fine. No. Not if I could help it."

"You don't think I'll make a good father?"

"No. Neither will I. That's the point."

"What if I said I'd marry you?"

"What if I said you were an idiot?"

Jaskier huffed. He slid his fingers into his hair and pulled on it as he turned around in a slow, exasperated circle. Maybe that was how Geralt felt about him sometimes, he thought.

"But you're keeping it?" he said. 

Geralt gave a sharp nod. "Yes."

"And me?"

Geralt frowned at him. "Am I keeping you?"

Jaskier swallowed. His throat felt weirdly tight. "Yes," he said. "Are you keeping me?"

Honestly, he'd never given much thought to fatherhood. He'd half assumed he'd die impaled on his lute after falling from a beautiful woman's third floor window, or maybe a duel if he couldn't convince Geralt to step up for him, or maybe he'd just choke on a walnut or something. But the more he thought about it - admittedly over the course of about forty seconds - the more he liked the idea. He could be a father. He could be a really good one and show Geralt just how wrong he was. He'd sing them to sleep and tell them stories and teach them to play the lute and Geralt could teach them...witcher things. Swords and strigas and all that. They could be good parents. And maybe Geralt liked to act like he didn't feel things but Jaskier knew that was complete and utter bollocks. Maybe that was how witchers were meant to be, but that wasn't how this witcher was, so maybe that was how he'd got him knocked up in the first place. It was definitely why he liked him.

Geralt looked at him. He was doing that scrunchy thing with his face that he did sometimes, when he really didn't want to talk about something or he wanted Jaskier to stop talking about something or he'd just got covered in the insides of something completely disgusting and wasn't sure if he wanted to wash first or get paid and then wash. But he supposed at least Geralt was looking at him, not at the floor or the wall or the door, and he wasn't telling him to leave, which would have been inconvenient given he had nowhere else to sleep. Definitely nowhere else that was currently housing his not-exactly-paramour who he'd apparently unexpectedly impregnated in a more than usual fit of whimsy. Jaskier wondered if Geralt thought this was all about him having a place to stay for the night or if he had some secret witcher power that meant he knew what he was thinking; that might have been embarrassing but at least he wouldn't have to tell him it wasn't just the room he wanted. He'd just thought what he'd wanted was completely off the table.

Geralt looked at him with that expression on his face until Jaskier was fairly sure he was making that face back at him, though the effect it had probably wasn't the same. Then Geralt stepped forward, his footsteps loud on the creaky floorboards, and he settled his hands on Jaskier's shoulders, and Jaskier thought maybe he was going to say something, let him down gently or tell him he was planning to sell the product of their impromptu night of passion to some rich couple off in Toussaint. He thought he might tell him _this was a mistake_ and technically that wouldn't have been false because it wasn't like they'd planned it, but Jaskier still felt at least halfway to indignant on the kid's behalf. But then Geralt kissed him. Sort of awkwardly, all noses and still mid-face-scrunch, he kissed him, and Jaskier made a surprised kind of sound that cut off quickly before Geralt pulled back. 

"Yes, I'm keeping you," Geralt said, like saying it pained him on an indescribable level, and like he was agreeing to quite a lot more than a convenient co-parenting arrangement. Jaskier just grinned and put his hands on him and really, if he hadn't been seven months pregnant, the newly non-scrunchy look on Geralt's face that followed Jaskier's hands on him said he'd have hoisted him up right then and there and carried him to bed. As it was, they had to walk to bed, but that was fine. As it was, all they did after that was strip and turn out the lamp and fall asleep together - it had been that sort of day, after all. But in the morning, bedhead and morning breath and all, Geralt bent him down over the nearest flat surface and had him from behind. It really was quite relaxing, even if the one doing the having was the silver-haired witcher who was carrying his child. At least they were moderately sure Jaskier wasn't going to end up pregnant, too.

And, when they left together, no idea if it could even work, no idea what they were going to do, he still felt surprisingly optimistic. 

\---

Somehow, through everything, that optimism has been maintained.

Kaer Morhen is not the sort of place Jaskier usually likes to spend time. It's cold and it's so far away from more or less everything that it might as well be on the moon and even after all this time, the witchers still look at him like he's an eel that mysteriously fell out of the sky, not Renfri's father. They don't really appreciate his singing, either. Ciri does, but she's not a witcher so she doesn't really count. And Renfri's been singing with him for as long as she's been able, almost since before she said a word. 

He doesn't like to leave but he has to sometimes because frankly, he makes more money than all the remaining witchers in Kaer Morhen put together. So he takes the big gigs and then he makes his way back and sometimes he goes with Geralt and sometimes it's Yennefer or Ciri and they definitely never get into any kind of trouble. At least not the kind he can tell a six-year-old about, even if he hasn't fallen off a trellis in years. 

Now, he's back again. He's been eyeballed in the courtyard like he's a thief out to steal all their non-existent coin and now he opens up the door to Renfri's room. Geralt told him about Blaviken maybe a week before she was born and Jaskier thought what the hey, it was a pretty name, so they went with it. She has his eyes and Geralt's hair and she and Ciri almost look like sisters. And this time he's brought her back her own lute, and it'll drive Geralt up the battlements, but he won't tell her no. She's asleep, though, so he just leaves the lute and slips away again. 

Geralt's in their room. _His_ room, really, because Jaskier technically has his own, but he only really uses it when Geralt snores so loudly that he can't sleep a wink. He looks up from the knife he's sharpening, because apparently he's a huge witcher cliché and he can't keep his weaponry out of the bedroom, and what he does with his face isn't what you'd call smiling but then again it's not exactly not. 

"You smell like horse," Geralt says. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes and tells him, "That's sweet, Geralt. I missed you, too." Then he puts down his lute and Geralt puts down his knife and the fact he doesn't deny it speaks volumes. The fact he doesn't complain as Jaskier straddles his lap might say even more. That and how he settles his hands at the small of Jaskier's back. That and how he kisses him. Jaskier's still not tired of that. 

And fine, so it's not like they planned this, and it's definitely not always perfect, but he still keeps coming back. 

It's a situation that they made themselves without really meaning to at all. But he wouldn't unmake it for the world.


End file.
